


The Projectionist

by preciousmetals



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, College of Winterhold Questline, For Me, Gay Panic, Gay Rights, M/M, Open to Interpretation, Winterhold (Elder Scrolls), no one asked for this but here i am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28122345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciousmetals/pseuds/preciousmetals
Summary: “I’m sorry. That you’ve been all alone all this time.”In which Onmund wrestles his Nordic bloodline and his love for magic. In which a new visitor at the College captivates him.//A short oneshot,,, probably.
Relationships: Onmund (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	The Projectionist

tw- depictions of death.

"Just when we thought the game was over  
The music lifts and our dying soldier lives  
And we breathe a sigh of relief"

* * *

Onmund was a disappointment. To his Nordic bloodline, his family, and to the other apprentices at the College of Winterhold. He sat in the worn, ratty chair at his bedside, head cradled in his hands. His hands were scarred perhaps beyond repair. He had considered on more than one occasion that his hands weren’t made for something as delicate as spellwork.

He hadn’t received nearly the quality of education that Brelyna and J’zargo seemed to have, either. Brelyna was the definition of academia. He’d spent many nights in the Arcanaeum with both of them. Brelyna could read book upon book for _hours_ without flinching. Not even a stiff neck. J’zargo was intelligent in a sharp, natural way. He could read the first and last paragraph of any given book and fill in the gaps with little error.

Onmund couldn’t keep up.

He _hated_ his upbringing. He wanted to blame his parents for his lack of success thus far and call it a day.

Whenever he’d suggest the possibility of leaving home, his parents would send him to the field for a double dose of rounding the bales of hay for the winter. If he pushed the subject, they’d lock the front door. He’d huddle into the shed at night, soothed only by the sound of the wind.

He was grown now, of course. No more huddling in the shed when he was frightened. No more feeling inadequate because his talents didn’t align with that of his brothers. He wasn’t the blueprint of the strong, brave son that Nordic families so often hoped and dreamed of.

His brothers were everything his parents could have dreamt of. Though they were younger, they showed more promise as Nord men. He had no doubt that they would both become quite comfortable as farmers, or blacksmiths, something that would make their parents proud.

There was a time when Onmund was an optimist. A long time ago, when he was a boy. The mere _thought_ of magic was enough to stir a reaction to his heart, which would pound against his chest when he imagined the things he could do. He didn’t set out to be a mage for the destructiveness, but for the power that came with healing.

He’d had an older sister once.

Her name had been Thyra. She had flaxen hair and fair skin, a beautifully symmetric face. Even as a child, Onmund had sworn he’d throttle anyone who laid a hand on her. She’d listen to his fantasies of being magical while they collected eggs from the chicken coops.

 _“They_ are _big dreams,”_ She’d admit as she carefully placed an egg in her basket. _“But they’re attainable as long as you keep fighting for it.”_

He could remember her face so clearly. The sound of her voice. The way that she’d purse her lips and wait for it to pass when him and his brothers fought. The way her skin glowed in the sun.

It was a sticky day during Midyear when Onmund had spotted his father on the outskirts of their family’s land, cradling her in his arms as he ran. She was pale white, a lifeless ragdoll in his arms as he slung her onto the ground next to the porch.

 _“Damn fool tried to defend the prisoners being executed. Publicly—”_ his father coughed, dropping her on the porch as he dry heaved off the side, grunting in desperation when nothing came out. _“Publicly said we should protect the Dunmer while the bastard was sentenced to die. I couldn’t save her. She dishonored this family.”_

The very people who defended the honor of the Nords were the ones who’d beaten her.

Her blond hair was caked with blood, her clothes bled through. Onmund had spent hours beside her body, running his thumb over her temple in circles, not daring to cry. Almost as if he were to comfort her. As though she would awaken and her lips would no longer be a sickly shade of blue. Life would return, her heart would beat, and she would breathe. She would be cold, but the sun would warm her right up. 

These were just empty wishes.

 _If I knew magic, I could’ve fixed her. If I knew magic I would’ve fixed her,_ he had repeated in his mind over and over. _She’d still be breathing. She’d be here._ He had changed his mind about throttling those who hurt her, but wished more than anything else that he could have fixed her. 

Before his father took her away to be buried, he removed her gold, circular amulet. He’d cleaned it, and kept it near to himself. The only thing he had left of Thyra.

Her death prompted him to verbalize his wishes to his parents.

 _“A mage?”_ His father had demanded when Onmund first spoke of his interest in magic. _“Next you’ll be drinking warm milk before bed and sleeping with dolls. You’re the oldest now, boy. Act like it.”_

When he cried, his father threatened to _give_ him something to cry about.

So, he adapted. He silently did the farm work, now without Thyra’s help. He would work through the days, the blazing hot ones, and the bitterly cold ones, knowing that he was going to get out someday.

He worked through the nights to learn. He would silently channel his energy and practice the necessary breathing techniques before trying to materialize any magic.

He knew the basics, but spells were lost to him. He couldn’t afford books, and people up here were cruel to those who chose to learn magic.

He had swiped _Spell Tome_ from a General Goods store during his family’s semi-annual visit to Windhelm after mentally apologizing to poor Revyn Sadri, who he’d reasoned might’ve come across the book on less-than-legal terms anyhow.

He’d cracked the book open eagerly upon his return home. _Illusion_? He racked his brain, having meant to swipe anything pertaining to offensive spell work. Something to defend himself with incase he was challenged.

He’d understood that his journey to Winterhold would be a tumultuous one—he’d be outmatched regularly. He needed something lifesaving. Something desperate.

His eyes swept across the pages, stopping on a section on Invisibility. That would do in a pinch. Unlike his Nord ancestors who seemed keen on throwing themselves in the middle of battle where they’d surely die, he wasn’t afraid of admitting when he was in over his head. Invisibility. He could work with this.

In the months leading up to his departure, he studied the pages of the book carefully. First, he’d struggle to keep his limbs invisible. Then he could almost completely disappear while he stood still. Slowly, he was able to keep it up as he slowly moved, avoiding any crunchy twigs or leaves in his wake. He’d refined his skills until he was certain that his invisibility was acceptable enough to keep him alive.

When he was frightened, he’d simply disappear.

Once snow was added into the equation, things would get more difficult. He’d pushed that thought far away, needless to say.

When he’d sat his parents down to tell them he was leaving home, he broke his mother’s heart. His father had angrily protested—and remained angry—but their emotional responses had eventually dissolved into hurt. He’d never forgive himself for slamming the door behind him as he left his home for the last time. He could hear his mother’s sobs as he went, carrying only a pack and a bow with five arrows with him.

 _“Please stay! W-we’ll listen to you!”_ She’d choked as he opened the door. He hadn’t heard her cry like that since Thyra had died. _“Not m-my boy!”_ He could hear the agony in her words.

He didn’t like thinking about it. Somewhere inside of him, he knew that they wouldn’t listen to him. Their ties to their Nord bloodlines ran deep; they would never trust magic. By default, they’d never trust him.

He couldn’t blame his parents for his missteps, though.

He was personally responsible for growth. He’d just have to work harder.

The sleeping quarters in the Hall of Attainment was quiet now—he didn’t think anyone would be back yet. The last he’d checked, Brelyna was still in the Hall of Elements practicing and J’zargo was in the Aracanaeum.

He lifted his head from his hands, covering his mouth this time as he continued thinking.

All things considered, he’d been advancing fairly well now that he had a teacher. He quite enjoyed the power behind Sparks, behind the Destruction magics that he’d yearned to learn in his childhood.

He was convinced he’d never shake the feeling of inadequacy.

He remained there, reflecting on his time at the College.

Soothed only by the sound of the wind.

* * *

Onmund pulled his hood further around his head, hiding his face. 

He picked at his fingernail impatiently before noticing another scar that stretched from his index finger to the top of his wrist. He shoved his hand to his side, decidedly ignoring the newest addition to their lecture. Tolfdir seemed more than glad to add to the class size, eager to spread his knowledge further. The College had been experiencing some… troubles with enrollment, given the state of Skyrim.

Onmund let his eyes roam to the side of the group, where the new person stood, resigning himself to keep a straight face as he took in their appearance.

He was shorter than Onmund, perhaps by four or five inches. That still left the newcomer at around five foot, eleven. He’d removed his helmet and was staring solemnly at Tolfdir as he listened to the lecture. He held his helmet in front of his torso, shifting his weight from one foot to the other impatiently.

His brows were pulled together—almost a glare—but Onmund didn’t get the sense that the man _meant_ to glare. This was his face at rest, Onmund realized in surprise.

He had long, ash brown locks that were twisted back into a knot at the back of his head, secured with what seemed to be a worn light blue ribbon, perhaps. If he were to remove the ribbon, he guessed the man’s hair may fall slightly below his shoulders. It was crusted to the side of his head by sweat, and by what Onmund feared may be blood, but could’ve easily been mud. There was no way to tell from this great of distance.

Onmund couldn’t help but notice the scar that trailed from the man’s temple to his ear. It was light pink, matte from the time that passed as it had healed. Onmund studied the scar from a distance, cursing the low lighting in the Hall of Elements. The man’s eyes shifted, meeting Onmund’s for half a second.

His irises were warm, despite the emptiness in them. They seemed to be glowering a golden-honey color; which made Onmund wonder if this person were real.

He needed to know more.

Onmund tried to pay attention, jumping through whatever hoops he needed to in order to please Tolfdir. He watched especially carefully when the newcomer was asked to cast a protective Ward to defend himself.

For educational purposes, of course.

The man’s eyes shifted from Tolfdir to the other two apprentices. He stepped forward calmly, crouching down to set his helmet on the ground. Without a word, he lifted his hands, conjuring a Lesser Ward with virtually no difficulty. He readied himself, keeping his eyes on Tolfdir’s hands.

A couple of strands of hair stuck out from the man’s tied back hair. He didn’t bother to push them back, but held the Ward with a look of complete concentration.

The way that he moved was almost graceful. He was light on his feet, seemingly making every movement in a way that felt calculated and purposeful.

The lecture seemed to drone on. By the end, Tolfdir had directed the Apprentices to meet at Saarthal for a group expedition. He made a mental note to check his map when he returned to his quarters.

*

He rehearsed his words in his head as the man closed in on Onmund’s space. His thoughts melted away as he got a closer look into the man’s eyes.

They _were_ honey colored. His irises weren’t brown, not hazel, but almost shining gold. The scar on his temple wasn’t the only one, joined by a scar that stretched from precisely the middle of his left cheek into his neck, trailing off at his collarbone.

It should’ve killed him. Whatever happened to cause these scars, Onmund was sure this man should be dead. He was a walking miracle.

Onmund let his eyes roam from the scar to the man’s build. Under his newly-acquired robes, Onmund predicted that the man was slimmer than himself, likely quicker on his feet.

Not a Nord, then. He didn’t have the meaty stature that a typical Nord might have.

“New here too, eh?” He mentally cringed. He’d managed to make a fool of himself to just about everyone here, he didn’t want to add to that list.

The man nodded, reaching to brush free flowing strands of hair from his face. “Asvard,” he said, his resting glare lifting into a disheveled smile that never reached his eyes. “My name is Asvard.”

Certainly not a Nord.

Asvard. Asvard. Asvard. He repeated the name in his mind, wondering absently if he’d heard of this man.

Onmund couldn’t reign in his disappointment. “I’d hoped I wouldn’t be the only Nord, but I should’ve known better.”

Asvard didn’t look offended. His facial expression didn’t change one bit as he spoke. “It must be lonely for you here, then,” he responded coolly, letting his eyes roam away from Onmund, resting in the middle of the Hall of Elements.

Onmund, on the other hand, couldn’t pry his own eyes away from Asvard’s profile. He had a sharp nose, thin lips that naturally curled into a small frown.

Breton, he figured. He only had met one Breton in his lifetime: Phinis Gestor, who also lived at the College, working as a Conjurer. He had similarly shaped features, some result of the Elf blood that ran through their veins, likely.

Asvard’s fingers curled around his helmet, his eyes meeting Onmund’s for one more fleeting moment. He seemed to be thinking carefully as he shifted his eyes downward. “I’m sorry,” He said in a hushed tone. His eyes slid up and down Onmund, seemingly taking survey of him as well. “That you’ve been all alone this whole time.”

No one at the College had dared bring up Onmund’s lineage. They all knew he was a Nord, and yet, no one had bothered to utter more than a few words to him. He hadn’t blamed them, Nords were typically the ones who were intolerant toward magic-users. Why would he be _that_ much different to a stranger?

He didn’t blame them for alienating him. He would have done the same thing. Maybe he deserved it. Asvard was the first to bother.

Onmund shrugged, taken aback. He tried to keep his tone even. “I’m alright.”

Asvard raised an eyebrow—so slightly, that Onmund should’ve missed it. His guarded expression seemed to melt into one that was softer before hardening once more. His lips parted as he nodded. “You’re alright,” he breathed, affirming Onmund’s statement before turning away.

Onmund exhaled.

He was hauntingly beautiful.

* * *

**I'm unsure if I'll add more to this, but I couldn't stop thinking about how complex Onmund had the opportunity to be. I pounded this out in an hour and there might be mistakes but Here It Is. There's depth there and he deserved a short lil fic.**

**Other than Asvard, I lay claim to nothing else. Skyrim doesn't belong to me.**

**I'm sorry for any spelling/grammatical errors, I am but a novice.**


End file.
